


Boredom

by CatsAreMyWorld



Category: Lord of the Rings - Fandom
Genre: Gen, Pairing not main focus (barely there). OC protagonist.
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-14
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-07-15 02:10:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,594
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7201925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CatsAreMyWorld/pseuds/CatsAreMyWorld
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was bored. Very, very bored. It enjoyed toying with the lives of sentient beings to relieve that boredom.</p><p>This time, it chose me.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2091 words (not including AN). This story contains scenes of violence and character death. I would not call it graphic, but it is there and it is not just mentioning it.
> 
> Thanks to my beta, MsMJ, on Fanfiction.net, and my English teachers for correct spelling, grammar and punctuation

‘Sixty-four bottles of bored on the wall, sixty-four bottles of bored! Take one down, pass it around, sixty-three bottles of bored on the wall, sixty-three bottles of bored! Take one down,’ I sang in my head. I was bored, okay! Bored. There was absolutely nothing to do! I was bored, bored, boredity bored, bored from Boredington! All because it was the weekend.

I had finished reading my books, I hated movies, there was absolutely nothing to watch on TV (I hated it anyway), I had already watched Doctor Who, Sherlock and Merlin so many times I could give a basic summary of all of them. I had finished my favourite anime and manga (and any others I could actually care about).

My homework – not that we were given much, anyway – was done and dusted. Studying was out – I would always get frustrated if I studied by myself. I finished practising my instruments for an hour each – piano and clarinet, by the way. I completed riding and working my horse five hours previously – my gelding, Yellowwood’s Sacrifice, a Thoroughbred horse, the breed that is – was now happily grazing in the field with the other horses.

‘Perhaps… It could not hurt to try,’ I thought. With that, I went down to the field to attempt to relieve my boredom by simply hopping on Sacrifice and sitting there. In hindsight, that was a terrible idea. He was a Thoroughbred. An OTTB (off the track Thoroughbred), which meant that he was an ex-racehorse. That had not occurred to me. Not at all.

Leaving our pretty, one story, red-brick house, I strolled down to the paddock. Along the way, I tied my dark blond hair into a low, very-much-in-the-centre-of-my-head, ponytail. It was about one hundred metres from the end of our garden to the stables, which were near the paddock and the arena.

I had not bothered to change out of my clothes – a dove grey long shirt that fades to dark grey from centre to edge and a pair of black jeggings – nor had I bothered with shoes.  
I hated shoes. Truly, I did. Of course, if we went out I would put them on – I hated unknown muck on my feet (although, even with shoes, I tried my best to avoid anything I viewed as ‘dirty’) – and by now it did not matter if I did not wear shoes as my feet had become very calloused. I could step on stones or even thorn and drawing pins and it would not bother me. Unfortunately, my mum, Matilda Lucas, often complained about it. She said things such as, “But Eris, it looks so ugly.”

To which I would reply, “But it helps.” And we left it at that.

Walking through the indigenous garden, where we had plants such as Aloe Vera, Protea and Strelitzia Reginae. We also had a small carrot patch – the horses loved the green of the carrots, so we grew our own so that they could have it.

I walked along the dry grass. It was the beginning of spring, with very little rainfall in winter, the grass had not recovered. The poor horses had to mostly live on hay and alfalfa. Of course they still had their concentrates – they all had coarse mix feed with cod-liver oil and, depending on the horse, corn oil and molasses. They were all given salt licks and balls in their stalls. They also had a rather large ball in the paddock and a soccer ball – domestic horses tended to get bored. A lot.

Reaching the wooden gate, I pulled it open. While the gate was wooden, the rest of the fence was made of electrical tape strung between wooden poles. I continued my stroll to Sacrifice – he was at the bottom of the paddock, I did not want to disturb him, so I chose to rather walk to him than call him to me.

My parents owned a riding school, so we had many horses other than our personal ones. Usually, the beginners would ride one pony gelding called Squishy. He was not anything special – just a pony mix (he probably had a bit of everything) at 14,1hh. He was a classic champagne splash white. Since the beginners rode him and we did not want them damaging his mouth, he had a bitless side-pull bridle. All of his tack was black, too, with a general all-purpose saddle and sensible, brown numnah.

I went to him, stroked his neck, rubbed his withers and continued on. Valley, Vivace, Astra, Norman, Solve, Kimberley, Ned, Ally, Panther, Tigger, Eeyore, Sandra – those were all riding school equines – most of them ponies with four horses.

Next I went past Yellowwood’s Cassowary and Greenfield’s Cloud. They were my parents’ horses. Like Sacrifice, they both had hunter clips and light turnout rugs. Cassowary was Sacrifice’s sister and also an OTTB. She was a chestnut with a sock on her left front. Her proportions were brilliant aside from her slightly too-long back.

Cloud was a grey-on-bay KWPN (Koninklijk Warmbloed Paardenstamboek Nederland (Royal Warmblood Studbook of the Netherlands), also known as a Dutch Warmblood) that was a great eventer but rather… problematic. He tended to get injured – he had turned injuring oneself into an art and mastered it. He was rather talented. He had somehow managed to get his back shoe half-off and lodged into his hoof – Cloud was the only shod horse we had, the rest went barefoot. Father had to put shoes on him because of his problematic self – hoof infections were the norm for pre-shod Cloud.

Cassowary – much like the bird for which she was named – was pushy and prone to kicking. One could never let their guard down, she tended to test the ‘herd leaders’ (i.e. us) and would not pass up an opportunity to be higher in rank than us. So, when she trotted up to me, into my space, I made sure to walk into hers and make her get out of mine.

At our farm, we were big on natural horsemanship. It worked, very well actually. The only problem was the aforementioned Cassowary – very aptly named – whom backed off and went back to grazing. Satisfied, I continued down.

“Sacrifice!” I called. “Hey, boy, come here!” I was a few metres away from him, at that distance, I did not mind disturbing him.

He looked up, then forlornly at the grass, and ambled towards me. The good boy stopped just before he entered my space – he was a very respectful horse, flighty, but respectful.

I ambled to him and stroked his neck. I read that this release the same pheromones as when their mother licked their foal’s neck. I did not know if it was true, but it seemed to work for our horses.

Moving to his back, I signalled to him to sit down (yes, horses can be trained to do this). Complying, Sacrifice lowered his quarters and I slid onto his back. I did not take his light turnout rug off – I saw no point. I then signalled for him to stand up again and gave the ‘relax’ signal once I had stretched myself across his back.

This was… really peaceful. I felt the lovely sun on my face – not too hot but not non-existent. It was perfect.

I sighed and turned my head. What I saw caused me to tense but I immediately tried to relax – I could not have Sacrifice spooking.

It might have been better if he had.

It was a pack of African Wild Dogs. They were really rare, so it was quite surprising to see them. One thing to note was that the horses hated and I mean hated them, but they would not spook unless Cassowary did.

Which, I must say, she did. Spectacularly.

She bolted and the herd did with her, including Sacrifice. I skidded off his hindquarters, landed with a loud thump on the sparsely grassed, dry ground. Winded, my lungs were heaving but receiving no oxygen. I thought that was going to be the worst of it, but nope.

The Wild Dog pack had split in two – one half was what I saw and the horses spooked at; the other lay in the direction where the horses had run. The first half had moved into a position that left the place where I lay as the only option for the horses to run. ‘No no no no no! Not here, not here!’ I thought. The horses galloped towards me, “Mum!” I barely managed to gasp. “Mum-meeee!”

The reached me. They reached me and they were going to trample me – they were going to trample me.

This is not a story where they noticed me, or some deity or hero rescued me from them or they, miraculously, did not step on me. They did and it hurt.

There was a hoof by my head, the light was blocked. Several hooves hit my stomach, one my head. My leg and both my arms were broken. Then… a hoof on my trachea. The horse crushed it. Then I realised that it was Sacrifice. My Sacrifice killed me. Or, at least, ensured it.

As the horses left, the Wild Dogs descended upon me. They bit and tore and I was being eaten alive. For the first time in years, I cried. I had always tried not to cry – to me it showed weakness. I could not afford to show weakness. Not with all the dangerous company I kept (i.e. my horses and dogs) whom would become dangerous if they thought me lower on the hierarchy.

I wheezed, I felt them digging in my abdomen. They were in my abdomen. “Hu-huh… Ma-Mum… Mum.”

I started to get dizzy – I had lost so much blood. It was… fading… Everything was fading. The yelps of the Wild Dogs as they fed, the terrified neighing of the equines… It was… Gone.

 

In the void between universes dwelt a being. A borderline omnipotent being that was bored. Sometimes, this being liked to play games. It chose random things, anything – abiotic and biotic – and sent those things anywhere in time and space, ranging from transporting a person’s swimming costume from their bag to their house to changing a laptop into a cat and putting it in an alternative universe. It was bored and its last toy did not do what it was meant to. It just died. Really, really, boring.

That being had an idea. It would take a human – any human from Universe-100 and put it in Universe-100 000. When they did that, they would change their form into… something. It had not decided it. ‘Perhaps into the form that will suit it most to the terrain and inhabitants nearby?’ To find one…

Sensing a brutal death – it always kept its senses out for those as they helped with the boredom – it watched a human girl – one point seven metres tall, Dutch, dark blonde hair, bright blue eyes, fourteen years, living in South Africa in a rural area – be trampled by horses then torn apart and eaten alive by African Wild Dogs. She was perfect! It would send her to the Rohirrim in the form of a black Moroccan Barb.

Boredom would be no more for it. Hopefully. It would just send her there and watch her and hope that she messes the plot up enough that it would be interesting. If it was not… Well, it considered that her fault and would punish her for it. Severely.

The being made a body for her – the most in proportion two-year-old Moroccan Barb mare it could possibly make (how could it not do so) and made a pocket dimension in her cranium so that her brain would not be pathetically small. It also made her brain exactly like a horse’s with one major difference – the Frontal Lobe was like a mix between her human brain and a horse’s Frontal Lobe – she would have a horse’s long-term memory and her human self’s personality. After creating everything and coding the horse’s DNA – the mare would grow to be 15,2hh, have a true black coat with a metallic sheen, have three whorls - two below eyes, one between them – and have two, bright blue wall eyes and a faint on the whorl between her eyes. The tissue in her feet that would normally be soft was hardened to be able to withstand rugged terrain without shoes.

The being laughed. Everything was now almost perfect.

Lastly, the being plucked her conscious from her human body and put it in the horse’s one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yellowwood’s Sacrifice: as far as I am aware, there are no horses called this and there is no stud-farm named this. The horses have their names in two parts (‘Yellowwood’ and ‘Sacrifice’), the first part being the stud-farm-that-they-came-from’s name and the other their won, individual name that can be anything.  
> OTTB: off the track Thoroughbred. When a race-horse does not race up to its owner’s standards or gets to old (usually around five) they are retired from racing and are sold, usually being retrained to do things like eventing, cross-country, show jumping, dressage, fox-hunting, hunter, working hunter… Most English riding competitions (I have yet to hear of a Thoroughbred being used for Western riding. I think that they are too impatient – Teal certainly is).
> 
> Paddock: an area that is closed off where horses are kept to graze.
> 
> Alfalfa: a type of hay with high protein, energy, vitamins, and minerals.
> 
> Soccer: football.
> 
> Gelding: a neutered male horse/pony.
> 
> Pony: an equine that is usually under 14,3hh and has different proportions to a horse. A small horse is not the same thing as a pony. A young horse is also not a pony.
> 
> 14,1hh: hh stands for ‘Hands High’. One hand is equal to 10,16cm or 4inches.
> 
> Classic champagne splash white: classic champagne is a certain dilution of a black coat (EE/Ee aa Chch/ChCh) that causes a lighter coat, mottled skin (pink with black mottles) and, sometimes, a tiger eye, which is an eye that is either green, yellow or amber.
> 
> Bridle: all the leather straps that go around an equines face.
> 
> Tack: the equipment that goes on a horse/pony when riding. (Saddle and bridle, may or may not include bit, boots and bandages.)
> 
> Saddle: the leather seat-thing that goes on the horse’s/pony’s back.
> 
> Numnah: the blanket that goes underneath the saddle. May or may not be the same shape as the saddle and may be lined or made with sheepskin or can be plain material.
> 
> Hunter clip: where all the fur is clipped except for the legs and the area under the saddle. The face may be left alone.
> 
> Turn-out rugs: turn-out rugs are blankets that are put on a horse when they are in the paddock. There are different types of rugs for different purposes.
> 
> Chestnut: a type of horse/pony colouring. The fur is a reddish to black colour (liver chestnut, liver chestnut still has a slight red tint (look it up, it’s gorgeous). Can have white markings. Mane and tail should be either the same colour or lighter than base coat. (ee aa)
> 
> Mane: the hair on the neck.
> 
> Sock: a marking that cannot go further up than the end of the fetlock and cannot go below it.
> 
> Grey-on-bay: when a grey horse/pony is born, their coats are their base coat colour (in this case, bay) and are usually born with ‘goggles’ (white fur around the eyes). As they get older, their fur lightens to white (a true white horse/pony is born white and can be made several different ways and has pink skin) but their skin is black, so they are called greys, not white. Eventually, their fur will turn flea-bitten (have flecks of their base colour in the grey).
> 
> Bay: a horse/pony with a brown (ranges from dark chocolate brown to bright red) base coat and black points (ears, mane, tail and legs), it may have white markings on the face and legs. (Ee/EE At At/ AtA+/Ata/ A+ A+/ A+a).
> 
> KWPN (Dutch Warmblood): a horse breed. ‘Warmblood’ does not refer to blood temperature. Rather, it means that they have a certain body type and temperament. Warmbloods are usually a cross between a hotblood (like a Thoroughbred or Arab) and a coldblood (like a Shire or Percheron).
> 
> Thoroughbred: a hotblood breed of horse. Often used for racing, these are the second fastest breed of horse (the fastest being a quarter horse (although quarter are only the fastest horses over a quarter-mile) being able to reach speeds of 72km/h (45miles/h) and are able to jump a length of up to 10m (33ft.).
> 
> Fetlock: The first joint above the hoof.
> 
> Shod: having shoes nailed into the horse’s/pony’s either two or four of its hooves.
> 
> Hoof: the ‘foot’ of the equine. It’s actually one toe surrounded by tissue and rock-hard nail.
> 
> Natural Horsemanship: training a horse or pony using its natural instincts.
> 
> ‘They would not spook unless Cassowary did’: a herd of horses/ponies will only spook if the lead-mare does.
> 
> Foal: a horse or pony under 12 months.
> 
> African Wild Dogs: also called African Painted Dogs, these are a critically endangered canine. They live in Sub-Saharan Africa.
> 
> Moroccan Barb: a hotblood breed of horse that comes from North Africa. They are as old, if not older, than Arabian horses.
> 
> Mare: a female horse over four years.
> 
> Whorl: a place in the horse’s coat (located on the forehead, bottom of the neck and abdomen) where the fur goes in different directions. Also called a ‘whirl’ or ‘swirl’.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2048 words, not including this. In the previous chapter, when I gave the explanation for ‘OTTB’, I wrote ‘competitions’ in it, I meant ‘disciplines’. Thanks to MsMJ for betaing.

I was sure I was dead. I remembered being ripped apart yet I was lying in the middle of a savanna plain, in the body of a horse. Now, finding that out was quite interesting to say the least, I freaked out after I had looked at my body to find out why my proprioception sense made my body feel enlarged and elongated. I guess that that is also the reason my vision is funny. It is disorientating and terrible.

Could someone have honestly blamed me? I changed species. Now, I had always dreamed of being a horse or a cat, dragon, pegasus, unicorn (the original, European version, thank you very much), a dog or even a snake (I actually rather liked snakes) but I never expected it to happen. Had I not also died? Are dead things not meant to stay that way? I did not believe in any form of afterlife so, to me, that was out of the question.

My head started to hurt… My small, tiny, equine head that almost felt bigger on the inside, ‘Like the TARDIS,’ I thought. That cheered me up quite a bit… Maybe I was on another planet, time period or, as I dared to hope, universe?

‘That,’ I decided. ‘is not something to ponder right now… Perhaps I should try out my smell? My hearing has already improved, that I know.’

Not long after I had woken up, I attempted to use my binocular vision instead of my monocular vision. It did not help much and it made me feel nervous, but it certainly helped with my headache.

Colours also looked funny. It was almost like there was no red – I had read somewhere that horses cannot see red very well and that yellow, green and blue were fine, which would explain why there were less colours than usual. Then again, I might have been able to see red and I only thought I could not because the grass was too yellow and the ground a very unusual, interesting colour. It was a sage colour.

I sniffed the air, facing the direction the wind came from. I recognised the smell of horses, much stronger than when I picked it up using my weak human nose.

Make no mistake, I had not quite accepted – I probably had not even grasped - what had happened, but I had detached myself from my emotions. They were there, but I changed usually changed them. If I could not change my emotions, I buried them, made myself neutral. I did not know why I did that, it was simply something that I had taught myself to do and I suspected it was because my mum had told me that I had not properly cried since I was younger than four and I wanted to keep that up.

I walked towards the horses that I had smelt, my head as high and tense as it had been since I woke up, ears swivelling at a rapid pace.

When I first got up, I had thanked my younger self for playing as an animal and moving on all-fours every day (not all the time of course, I did have dignity) - it made moving now much easier.

As I moved through the boring plain, my ears picked up the rustling of the grass. I kept on hearing it constantly, my heartbeat and breathing accelerated, my head moved even higher, my tail was clamped down tightly and I kept on moving faster until I broke into a trot, then a gallop. I completely skipped cantering – there was no point in doing it, the only difference between them was how many beats the gaits had.

It took me many seconds to reach a full gallop, but once I had reached it I felt like the fastest thing on the planet!

I could not hear anything from the wind and, so distracted was I with sprinting, that I accidently turned on my monocular vision.

It was terribly distracting and I was frightened by it. I threw and shook my head – left, right, diagonally, ‘Stop it, stop it, stop it! Just stop it!’ And I proceeded to trip over my own hooves.  
Yup, absolutely genius.

I admit, I have my moments, but really? I managed to trip over my own feet, hooves, whatever.

As I landed on the ground, to further add to my embarrassment, I muzzle-planted, but, luckily, my head slipped to the side and I managed to avoid damaging anything too badly – the worst I had was a few scrapes and some cuts.

Quickly, I lifted my head and got up – the bridge of my nose was parallel to the ground – my tail clamped down, nostrils flared and breath heaving. I was not as fervent to run anymore.  
I scented the air again for the herd and continued in its direction at a trot. It was mostly instinct that told me to. I also hated being completely alone – I needed someone to be within at least fifty metres if it was in an unfamiliar area and, if it were, say, in my house, at least within shouting distance.

If I were not like that, I would have stayed as far away from other horses as possible – horses are terrible to newcomers, completely and utterly horrible. But it was that or loneliness and I could not deal with being alone.

LB

‘Bloody hell! One would think that I had kicked their kennels with their attitudes.’ I thought. Mares really could act like @%^$# when a new horse came into the picture, and the stallion... Talk about bad manners.

At least I had secured a good position, of which I was grateful. I simply wished that I knew more about proper horse and herd behaviour – I had more than my fair share of kicks and bites because I did not respond correctly.

My head was high up and my entire body was tense. I may have been with company, but I was still nervous. I most certainly was not eating… Although… I had always wanted something like this to happen… No… No, no, nopity, nope, no. I was not eating grass… Then again… Neh. Nope. I would rather eat meat than grass, even in equine form. Honestly, why do people willingly choose to only eat those green monsters called plants… And even nastier things that grew from trees. Yuck.

A mare - that I thought was a bay - walked into my monocular vision on my right – I had switched to monocular as I knew it would be important to get used to it – and I winced. Her right jaw was broken with a very clear, hoof shaped laceration – courtesy of me.

I refused to take too much blame – it was as much her fault as mine. She bit me many times and broke my skin, so I kicked her. Violently, as could clearly be seen from the indention.

I felt guilty, however, by the fact that she could no longer eat. I saw her trying, but the injury was too much. She could not chew, could not bite… I did not think I would be able to stand being near her.

After I had defeated her, I automatically had a high-middle place in the herd hierarchy. Which did not suit me at all. I knew a little about horse behaviour but not enough to thrive. I could only hope that the rest of the herd would teach me.

I turned my head and watched the horizon. We were situated at a lovely place on this plain – a very slight hill in the middle of the golden grass. ‘Very… Gryffindor-ish grass,’ I thought and shuddered. I was a Slytherin, through and through, Gryffindor simply did not suit me, which I was glad about. I had always been a Slytherin, even when I was little, I preferred the Snakes to the Lions.

For example, my father helped my brother and I make our own wands. On mine, I had carved a snake head on the handle. ‘That was so much fun.’ My brother and I learnt many spells that way and pretended to be a wizard and a witch. We fought that way, it was a lot of fun.

I tilted my head to look up. The sky was the most wondrous shades of blue, with the horizon splattered with mostly gorgeous but also with a few foul yellows. I am certain there should have been some orange and pink, but my horse-vision could not tell it apart from yellow. It was quite a pity that I did not keep a full spectrum of colours.

A breeze picked up and I shivered. My coat was thin and, from looking at the other horses’ coats, it was autumn, so hopefully my fur would grow out. If it didn’t… I was, quite frankly, attached to another object by an inclined plane, wrapped helically around an axis.

Yeah… Might I just say that Big Bang Theory is awesome?

Another mare walked into me and attempted to move me out of my place. I, not accepting this, retaliated by biting her shoulder sharply. She squealed and gave her own bites. Shortly, this had evolved into a full-blown fight.

The great thing about horses was that none would interfere with a fight unless it had the potential to endanger the herd, in which case the stallion would separate them.

Our fight grew to be very violent – instead of very little physical contact as most fights were, we viciously attacked one another, that caused the herd stallion – a small, stocky horse at fourteen point six hands high and a barrel that looked as wide as he was tall, I also thought that he looked like a chestnut or perhaps a palomino – to snake towards us, ears pinned, eyes wide and teeth bared, told us to ‘knock it off’.

I hated being told what to do, especially by males. I snapped back at him, ears still pinned. The other mare was simply standing there, tense and angry, but she did not bite.

I squabbled more and more with the stallion, to the point where we were going full out on each other. He eventually managed to trip me and held me down, teeth clamped on my neck.

My breathing was hard and fast, I was quite tired – I needed to work on my stamina in horse form – and sweaty. Slowly, I went limp, I hoped that the stallion would let me go if I did that. To my relief, he did.

For the rest of my life, I always said that the only reason he beat me was because he had more experience in fighting, which was definitely true, and that I was already tired from my new introduction to the herd and my previous fight.

I heaved myself up. I was tired and lonely and just felt sick. I wanted company.

I looked around and stumbled over to one of the yearlings that I had spotted, she was about the same age as me – I estimated my age to be around one-and-a-half- to two-and-a-half-years old – and, when I reached her, we blew into each other’s nostrils.

Our ears were back but not pinned, we squealed softly and stamped but, once we had established which of us was the leader we were fine. I was somewhat miffed at losing, but I was tired, sore and did not feel like putting in extra effort to dominate her.

I was still unsure about being a horse, but it was getting easier, I had even started eating the grass. Chewing was very comforting. I wondered if eating also released dopamine into a horse’s system. It would be interesting to know, something I much looked forward to when I got back home. I would, I knew it. I would definitely get home.

But then again, did I want to? Sometimes, I felt that I did not want to live back home, not as a human. Such foul, disgusting things. We destroyed everything. Leaving nothing. We were unbelievably cruel. Why would anyone want to live in a world like that, was something I often wondered. So…

Did I really want to wake up from what had to be a dream?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TARDIS: Doctor Who reference. The TARDIS is a time and space travelling machine (although she is actually alive). TARDIS stands for Time And Relative Dimension In Space.
> 
> Canter: similar to the gallop, when in a canter, the horse moves it legs the same way except that the legs that would touch the ground second and third in a gallop land at the same time. It is also slower.
> 
> Trot: a two beat gait where opposite legs move together.
> 
> Gallop: a four beat gait. The hind legs move and land before the front legs.
> 
> Stallion: intact male horse over four years.
> 
> Gryffindor and Slytherin: Harry Potter reference. They are two of the Hogwart’s (the magic school’s name) houses. Gryffindor is known as the ‘House of the Lions’ and is represented with a lion and its colours are red and gold. Slytherin is the ‘House of Snakes’ and is represented with a snake and its colours are silver and green.
> 
> Big Bang Theory: an American comedy TV show. The Big Bang Theory is also a theory on how the universe came into existence.
> 
> ‘I would rather eat meat than grass’: horses can digest meat. In some places, they actually feed their horses fish (which they fight over) and offal. There have also been reports of horses killing and eating other animals.
> 
> ‘Another mare walked into me and attempted to move me out of my place. I, not accepting this, retaliated by biting her shoulder sharply. She squealed and gave her own bites. Shortly, this had evolved into a full-blown fight’: with horses, the one whose feet move from being pushed is the subordinate. If you can control a horse’s feet, you can control the entire horse.
> 
> Snake: the horse moves with its head low and long with its ears usually pinned, whites of the eyes showing and teeth bared.
> 
> Yearling: a horse between one and two years old.
> 
> ‘We blew into each other’s nostrils’: the way horses greet each other.
> 
> Palomino: a dilution of chestnut by a single cream gene. This makes horses’ fur range from a light cream (almost white) to a dark golden colour (I’ve even seen a genetically proven palomino that looked like a bay). Their manes and tails are usually white (the genetically proven palomino that looked like a bay had dark points, ‘though) and they can have white markings on their face and/or legs. (ee aa/At At/ AtA+/Ata/ A+ A+/ A+a/Aa/AA/AAt/AA+ ChCh/Chch)
> 
> I apologise, in the previous chapter I gave the wrong genetic code for a bay, a bay will have any of these genetic codes: EE/Ee AtA+/A+A+/A+a/Aa/AA/AAt/AA+. (slashes indicate that it is one or the other. Eg. the horse will either have EE AA or Ee AA)


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 2253 words. Thanks to MsMJ for betaing. Thank you, loyal minions! I mean readers!

My respect for horses grew immensely.

I had always wondered how people could call them stupid, and then I knew that the people that called them such were the unintelligent ones. The horses’ hierarchy was complex and the horses knew it from birth! They knew where they stood, they knew what not to do and what to do… They were amazing. All horses were amazing.

I had spent the last four months with them. I was the middle of winter and my coat was, thankfully, thick enough to keep me warm. I was extremely lucky to have ended up in a place without snow – I probably would have frozen to death otherwise.

My friend, whom I had named ‘Tilly’, was rather possessive of me. Unless, of course, I was misreading it.

Yeah… I was definitely misreading it. I had noticed that the other horses also were possessive of their ‘friends’. It was almost like they had mini-herds in the herd…

I blinked, ‘Oh. Oh! It all makes sense now!’

There was a reason my mother sometimes called me ‘exwa spweffwil’, her ‘special’ way of saying ‘extra special’. Then I would get mad and insult her and she would tickle me and I would bite and kick and squeal… I had not changed much, had I?

I blinked again and cropped the much drier, much yellower grass. Previously, it had had a tinge of green that I had not noticed, but that was completely gone. The grass also tasted very, very dry and I had to drink much more than I did previously.

Tilly and I strolled and ate next to each other. Another two yearlings had been forcefully added to our herd – a colt and a filly. The colt must have been a chestnut of some description with two stockings and a sock – the stockings on his forelegs and the sock on his left hind.

The filly was what I thought was grey on black – she had grey ‘goggles’ and dapples on her base coat of black which was typical of a young grey-on-black horse.

Both yearlings were sensitive and a bit meek, I did not think that the colt would last when he left the herd unless he joined a bachelor-band.

Another thing about that colt; while he was umbrageous and shy, he was also annoying and rude. Like all horses, he liked to play occasionally. Like all colts, his ‘play’ was less than appropriate. ‘Bloody colts’ was a thought that often went through my head. Of course I gave him some good, well-placed kicks and sharp bites. It did not take long for him to stop trying to ‘play’ constantly.

Next problem to solve: what I am going to do when summer comes?

What was worrying me was that mares go into heat for five days every two weeks in summer. There was no way I was going to have a foal. Absolutely none. Nee, nope, nada. Plus, it would probably kill me. A broad stallion to a narrow mare was a bad idea.

‘Yuck, yuckity, yuck, yuck. Why were my acquaintances so obsessed with things like that?’ I shuddered, thinking of what they would talk about. Such dirty minded plebeians. I could not say that I missed them. ‘Happy thoughts, Eris, happy thoughts. Ripping apart something, blood everywhere, eating it. Munching, munching. Gorgeous, crimson flesh slipping down my throat. Slick blood on my mouth. Chewing, chewing.’

I loved flesh. I could barely live without it when I was human, so much that I had scurvy when I was young because I hated vegetables, seeds, those little tree-demons - anything that was not meat, I hated (mostly, nothing beats pizza or burgers). Whenever I wanted to change what I was thinking about, I would always think of ripping something apart and devouring it. I did not know why, but it worked.

‘Perhaps you enjoy the thought of death.’ I giggled in my head. ‘Now I’m talking to myself – how typical of me, I just love pretending I’m mad, don’t I?’

A freezing wind ruffled my coat and hair. I braced myself against it and shuddered – the cold and I never got along well, I suppose that made me well-suited for my breed (a Moroccan Barb, I had found out, which came from the Sahara).

Tilly turned to me and started to nibble along my neck and back. My head lifted slightly and I stopped grazing. For a few moments, I simply blinked, then I returned her gesture.

We were engaged in mutual grooming. For horses, grooming was a bonding time. At times like those, ‘though, I thought that it might also be a gesture of comfort, although I am not sure whether horses would actually try to console their herd-mates – after all, everything, with every species, was about oneself. Horses were purer with their intentions. They knew what they wanted and they did not hide it as something else.

I heard the grass rustle. At first I thought it was the wind, then I heard the sound of a claw on stone.  
I stopped grooming Tilly. Ears pricked and facing the sound, I was alert for any more indicators. Tilly sensed my intent, as did the rest of the herd and, as one, they turned to the same direction.

The stallion and lead-mare moved closer to where the sound emitted from. Their nostrils were flared and they were waiting for an indicator of there being something in the grass.

Flying out the grass, a small cat pounced. It looked like a caracal, which was actually rather likely. Caracals were fierce, feisty little cats, capable of taking down a young kudu, I guesstimated they would weigh around fifty kilograms to sixty kilograms perhaps when a caracal would stop being able to take them down.

There were a few foals in the herd that could not have weighed much more than forty-five to fifty kilograms (they had grown alarmingly slowly for foals) and were probably what the caracal was after.

As one, the herd turned tail and fled. We ran. Oh, how we ran. Nothing could compare to us, but the weak, small foals were being left behind.

One could not honestly expect us to slow down for them – the foals being killed allowed the weak to be weeded out, the strong to survive. Those foals should have weighed at least two and a half times what they did! There was no way they could have been allowed to live.

A loud scream tore through the air. It did not cut off abruptly, but rather the downed foal stopped when it ran out of air then made the sound again, although much fainter each time. It was being suffocated.

The screams seemed unending.

LB

The screaming did not fade in my skull for hours.

It was strange, I usually was unaffected by things like that. Perhaps that was only in my imagination? I had never been confronted by a violent death in real life before, never heard a scream of absolute worry and pain. That was, perhaps, why I was so stressed, which further stressed me more.

I had not eaten since, how could I? I was confronted by something new: horror. I had never felt horror before, with one exception; when I died. But this was worse as it was not horror for me. It was for something else and I was not even fond of that foal! I did not even know which one of the weaklings was gone (the other two had come back, catching up to us about an hour after we had stopped).

The fact that I was horrified by that foal’s death made me anxious. I felt weak, useless. Why care for that which does not affect me?

My tail was swishing furiously, my ears pinned, I paced in a collected trot. I shook my head several times, my eyes were wide, the sclera showing, the other horses stayed far away from me and seemed to make sure to have an eye on me.

‘That’s rather funny! People say that they keep an eye on someone, but these horses are literally keeping one eye on me.’

I found that hilarious! I gave two, wheezing, long breaths (for a horse) before remembering that I was unhappy. I was unhappy! ‘Bad Eris! Bad! Remember, Eris, remember! Rage, rage, rage! Teach it for making you mad, teach it!’

Giving a sound akin to a roar, I broke into a canter and proceeded to do something that looked like a capriole except it was wilder, less refined.

I felt better then. Doing that was actually rather therapeutic, but seemed to make the other horses scared of me. I was also really tired.

My ears drooped to my side. I really could change moods quickly, ne? My acquaintances used to joke that I was bipolar – I knew that I was not, but it was annoying. They did it because of how quickly I could change what I was feeling. It would usually lead to me insulting them (I called one of them a masochist) or punching them. I was a fairly violent girl, with exceptions. Such as the caracal attack. I might have run because the others had and it was instinct, but I was unsure. Perhaps I did not want to be left alone? Or I was a coward. ‘Yes, yes, I am a coward. No, no, no! I can’t be! I’m such an idiot. But… but… I, I ran. I ran, I ran, I ran, I ran far, far, far. So far. Coward.’

I was stressing again, I was walking, stressing, pacing, walking, stressing, pacing, walking, stressing, pacing… ‘No, no, no, no. Stop, stop.’

I was a mess, frightened eyes, ears and tail. I was a big ball of anguish. I was not meant to be there, no, no, no.

I stumbled a bit, then simply flopped onto the ground. I lay down, prone, hoping a predator would come and do away with me. How could I have lived with running away. I was not concerned with the fact that I had let the foal die – it was not my concern. I was weak and my parents and my brother and everyone else would just mock, mock and mock me. ‘I am not weak, I am not! I can, I can deal with this! They’ll… they’ll mock you for not holding yourself together, call you a wuss, a nansy pansy. No. No. No more. No more!’

A few minutes after I had collapsed onto the floor, Tilly came to me and sniffed. She then sighed and settled to watch over me. She stood a few metres away, relaxed. Having a calm presence nearby helped sooth me, as if she had an aura around her, holding me and transmitting her emotions to me. I felt better. The young, heavy set, mealy chestnut horse was a stereotypical coldblood. Thick (mentally and physically), gentle, tall and fluffy, she was the perfect companion, albeit with bossiness.

That was the first night since I got there that I had proper rest.

LB

I dreamed.

I dreamed of wondrous things, a large hall with a straw roof, many battles, five armies, giant mammoth elephant things that looked like mûmakil. ‘Yeah, a mûmakil, the Battle of the Five Armies, Meduseld… I’m dreaming about Lord of the Rings and the Hobbit? Huh. Oh, look, they’re the Nazgûl. Is that Fordo? Ooo! Gandy! It’s Gandy! Why does Shadowfax get his own scene? As a foal no less (he had to be as the horse was pitch-black.) Wait, no, that’s not Shadowfax, but it’s a mearh, certainly. Or maybe not? Wait… Is that me!’

The scene that I saw was (see what I did there? I am awesome!) beyond weird. Although, it was not like it was going to happen anyway. There was absolutely no way I was going to do that. Nah-ah, nope, no.

I gasped (in my dreams, okay, I can do that!). The scene was gut wrenching. It was the aftermath of my death.

In my dream, the Wild Dogs went after Norman, a small, slip of a pony (he was so narrow that, once when Sacrifice was lame, I literally slipped off of him when he turned) and the Wild Dogs fell upon him. This was after they had eaten me, I must have not been enough for them, or I simply tasted foul (I would be really offended if it were the latter, I am supposed to be tasty, damn it!)

They managed to catch him, mauling his hind legs, flanks and shoulders. They did not manage to kill him – he was still squealing when my mother came and chased them off with a gun. She was not allowed to kill them as they were on the endangered species list, but she scared them and set our dozen Rhodesian Ridgebacks after them.

The Dogs gone, my mother went to Norman. Now, I should just say that Norman was the first pony that I had ever had. He was my darling, although I paid little attention to him after I had gotten Sacrifice. And… There was no way that Mum would leave him to suffer in his condition.

I heard her sigh in my dream, she contacted the insurance company – she needed their permission to kill Norman, otherwise they might deny the claim.

A few minutes later, and it was clear they had given her permission.

I closed my dream-self’s eyes as the gunshot went off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In a herd of horses, there are ‘mini-herds’ or sub-groups that do not stray far from each other.
> 
> Horses get a majority of their water from grass
> 
> Filly: a female horse/pony under 4 years.
> 
> Colt: male horse/pony under 4 years.
> 
> Stocking: a marking on a horse’s/pony’s leg that goes on or over the hock or knee.
> 
> Hock: the horse's ‘heel’ (best way to explain it) on its hind legs.
> 
> Bachelor-band: colts are forced to leave their herd by the dominant stallion at about 1 – 2 years of age.
> 
> Sahara: the largest hot desert in the world, it takes up about a third of Africa.
> 
> Blinking is a sign of thinking in horses – when horses blink more than they have to, they are usually thinking.
> 
> Caracal: the largest small cat in Africa (loving the oxymoron) that usually prey on birds and small mammals but have been known to attack springbok and young kudu. They live in the Middle East and Sub-Saharan Africa. Females weigh about 16kg (35ib) and males around 18kg (40ib).
> 
> Swishing tail: if a horse is doing this without intent to get rid of an annoyance (like a fly), watch out! This horse is annoyed and might kick!
> 
> Pinned ears: this is an angry horse! Watch out!
> 
> Collected trot: a fairly hard trot to do, the horse must be on the bit, its stride must be short whilst it maintains its impulsivity of a working trot but with a much shorter, elevated stride.
> 
> Capriole: part of the High School (an advanced form of dressage), where the horse leaps into the air and kicks out with its hind-legs when it is horizontal to the ground. The only breeds of horses that are suitable to do the High School are baroque horses as most other breeds are not built correctly.
> 
> Mealy chestnut: looks like a regular chestnut, just with lighter areas on the flank and belly.
> 
> Mearh: singular of Mearas (like Shadowfax). In Old English (I think) it means horse.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1910 words.
> 
> Thanks to MsMJ for betaing. Just to note: this story is on Wattpad, AO3 and Fanfiction.net.
> 
> I apologise on my lack of knowledge of anything sooner than the Hobbit – I have tried to read the books other than LOTR and the Hobbit, but they bore me to death. Corrections are welcome, please. Heck, if someone can give me a basic rundown I’ll let them have some say in what happens! Also, for safety’s sake, Eris will have the same amount or less knowledge than I do on the Silmarillion, the Children of Húrin and any other books that came before the Hobbit. I also warn that my knowledge is a bit rusty.
> 
> Warning: chapters may take longer to write... I guess I should have warned about this the previous chapter, ne? I’m just lazy right now.
> 
> I am so excited! I just did free-lunging with my horse that has been at rest in the paddock (of course going back to the stable at night) for the first time in six months and I did a successful join up with him!
> 
> Quick question: does anybody here play Horse World Online? This is simply out of curiosities sake.

It was not long before I, again, became bored. Quite simply, there was not much to do as a horse; eat, sleep, excrete waste, run away, have foals (which I might add, I did not do) and, most embarrassingly, pass gas.

Yeah, yeah – horses are flatulent, usually when they buck – but it was only because it was hard to achieve full horse-power without gas! It was not like humans did not do it.

It was spring, two years after I had arrived. I guesstimated that I was around three or four years old – it was extremely hard to tell with horses. In human years, ‘though, I was equivalent to around twenty-three to twenty-seven.

And I was bored, again.

Hell, I was so bored that I had contemplated having a foal just to occupy my time by looking after it... Eh, no. I would not do that. No way.

There really was not much to marvel at anymore – everything was the same, the only thing that changed was the herd members and predators. Although to interest myself I did practise dressage do hill-work.

Thanks to my practise and hill-work, I was now able to do what was usually called ‘being on the bit’. That basically meant that I brought my hindquarters underneath me and put more weight on them (usually, sixty percent of a horse’s weight is on their front legs, the remaining forty on their hind-legs) which caused my back to rise and my neck to arch. Being on the bit was a great boredom reliever and also great for my health and strength.

Other than that, I also practised the passage, collected, extended, medium and working gaits, piaffe (I did not like it much, but at least I was not taught the way normal horses are), turn on the hind-quarters (my hind-legs would stay in the same place whilst my fore-legs would turn around), turn on the forehand (the opposite of the previously mentioned turn), leg yielding (moving diagonally with my nose facing the opposite direction of where I was going), travers, renvers, half-pass, transitions, pirouette, counter-canters, change of leads as well as simple lead changes, flying changes, Tempi, volte, serpentines and circles, I even attempted a few of the Air’s Above the Ground.

If asked, I would say that doing those was a major pain (quite literally) in the arse. It was exhausting but worth it. I was strong, muscular and fast. I felt that I could gallop all day, across soft sand and never be tried! I could move agilely and straight. I was brilliant.

That was why I decided to travel.

Now, why I did that was out of boredom. It was a smart way to get rid of boredom, not so much a wise one, after all, horses were herd animals and they neither did well nor were safe on their own. Even horses that left their birth-herds did not do so alone, it was impractical.

So, I was the bored, idiotic genius that left my first herd on my own.

LB

My travels were most certainly interesting. During them, it did not take me long to realise were I was as I landed up in an enormous forest filled with Ents, Entwives and Huorns.

Yup. I was in freaking Arda, and, I judged, looking at the forest, I was probably in the First or Second Age as the forest was rather large. Well, larger than it would be in the Third Age.

At this rate, I would not have any fun messing with Third Age characters! How boring. Seriously, how much fun would it be to try to eat the blondies’ hair and pretend that I thought it was hay! Their faces would be priceless! Or to throw our favourite horse-people into a pile of muck! And it was all ruined by a stupid thing called age!

‘Age, always age! Why can’t I be immortal! Freaking age!’ I passed yet another Ent, ‘These things are everywhere! Can they not choose one place and just stick themselves there! It’d save me the trouble of manoeuvring around their slow trunks!’

I definitely got the whole: we are trees, trees age slow; therefore, we are slow thing (which was certainly never said to my knowledge, but that did not matter!), but could they not just get a move on. Were they infected with slow-itis or turtle-enza or something?

On my walk through Fangorn, it took me not long to realise that I would come across something uncertain.

When was Isengard built? Was Saruman always the Wicked Wizard (usually, I would have said ‘witch’, regardless of gender, then have changed the ‘w’ to a ‘b’) of the West? I also just realised that that was alliteration. ‘How the Hell did I not notice that before? Really, Eris, really? Have you gone slow, now? And pretending that you’re mad again! How stupid are you!’

I irritably swished my tail – both to rid myself of a pesky fly and to spread knowledge of my anger.

I lifted my head in the air, ears pinned, and curled my upper lip back to scent the air in the most efficient way possible. I did not smell anything that might be a wizard, an orc, an uruk-hai, a warg, an elf, a dwarf or a human. The only smells were those of the forest: the plain deer that browsed, multi-coloured and boring-brown/grey birds who sang, small red foxes padded softly through the underbrush, rabbits and mice, shrews and squirrels, scuttled across the light-dappled floor, trees and Huorns. Perhaps there were some wolves, maybe a bear or two, and some species of cat.

I sighed then; it was a beautiful place, it was hard to stay angry, and the exercise and the view gave me ample stimulation. I would carefully step over and around rocks, ditches, faeces (there was no way I was going to step any near that, if I could help it) and roots. I dodged brambles and blackjacks – I had learnt the hard way that those were terribly uncomfortable to have in one’s coat.

It was mildly cold, walking in the deep forest. Light did get through, yes, but never long enough to warm my pelt from the shadows of the trees, only sufficient to make me colder when it faded. I honestly hated this. I lived for warmth! I loved the heat and being a Moroccan Barb did not help! Perhaps it would have been worse had I been a human or better had I thicker fur? Although that did not matter as I did not have it which left me grumpy.

Not only was my mood foul, but my face and body language screamed irritable. At that moment, nothing with sense better than a lemming’s would approach me, unless, of course, it was something that I could not hurt, like those damn trees!

I knew that I was starting to get frustrated. A frustrated me was never a good me. Sleeping on it would be the best option, but then again… I was in an unknown forest. Sleeping unnecessary was a terrible idea, it might also be a good one. See, if I was well rested, I would be fit to fight or take flight, a bare necessity in the world of claw and fang (hoof and tooth? I had no idea.)

I scented the air again. By lifting my upper lip, which exposed my teeth, I could smell anything within several kilometres, although I was not sure at what distance I would need a breeze to carry the scent towards me.

My senses were assaulted every time I did this – more so in the beginning. Imagine smelling something, a rose perhaps. Then suddenly multiply the smell of it and everything around it by at least a few hundred. Your sinuses hurt, your brain in overload… I have gotten used to it, but my new nose never seizes to amaze me.

I turned towards a deer trail. It was so small, noticing it was next to impossible without being able to smell the deer’s odour, mightier there than other places in my area.

I stumbled along the path – it was so overgrown, I could not see my hooves, just slightly less brush to indicate where the trail was. To make things worse, I was hungry, thirsty and some annoying birds with even more annoying calls just would not shut their traps! If this kept up, and I could catch a bird, I would be more than happy to eat it, although I doubted that feathers in the throat would feel all that great. What did I care? I was grumpy, it did not matter. All I wanted was a nice, jui-

‘Glade!’ The word resonated throughout my head.

I sprang forward, the brilliant, warm grass. Gorgeous sun! I lay down, front-end first, then back legs, I rolled. At first I could only move slightly on one side, I needed to put some effort in! I wriggled, twisted and went up slightly to add momentum and rolled some more! I got onto my back then onto my left side. Wriggles and scratches, the itches went away.

‘Just keep wrig-gling, just keep wrig-gling,’ I chanted to myself in the same tune Dory from Finding Nemo and Finding Dory used for her phrase ‘just keep swimming’.

I could not help it! If you have ever had a horse, you would know just how much they love to roll! I could not ignore instinct!

‘Just keep wrig-gling,’ would never stop, but it was getting tiring.

Resting for a moment, I realised that my back hurt slightly. I had actually managed to rub it raw in some places!

I reached my head to my back, licking the sores. I did not know if horses did this, but I knew that licking would help clean the wound of whatever was in the dirt, quite necessary for a wild-one. The dryness of my tongue reminded me of my parched state.

Although there was no water in the clearing, horses got most of their water from grass, of which there was plenty of the emerald, succulent (for a horse, anyway) in the clearing.

I lifted myself up – again, forehand first, then hind-end. I sighed and began to crop the grass, swivelling my ears for the slightest sound of water – even though some of my thirst could be quenched by the grass, I still needed to drink something, lest I face dehydration.

I knew what dehydration felt like, it was not pleasant – as a human or a horse. It was simply something I hoped not to get, dealing with it would not be pleasant and, as a horse, if I was not quickly rehydrated my kidneys would fail – I have died once, I did not plan to do so again.

Was it really that easy to forget, such a simple thing, quick and sweet.

Death. Although I did not wish to experience it again (being ripped apart and changed was traumatising) I could honestly say that it was the kindest thing ever done to me.

Life was hard. There was no other way to put. Yeah, sure, it was fine for fourteen years, I survived that long, but I knew, watching my mother, older friends and student mentor (who was also my friend) that it would just get harder and stressful. 

From that I had concluded one thing.

Life was not worth living; death was the only truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The only accurate way to tell the age of a horse (without knowing when it was born) is to look at their teeth. Telling a horse’s age by its teeth is difficult and takes years of training. (Source, books and my horse’s dentist.)
> 
> H ttp ://w ww .foothillsmobilevet. co m/how-old-is-my-horse-in-human-years/
> 
> (The dressage moves can be found here, I do not wish to type them out as it would be far too long and may not make sense. I do not recommend trying any of these for the first time without the aid of a riding instructor) H ttp ://w ww .dressage-academy. co m/dressage-glossary.php (http://www.dressage-academy.com/dressage-glossary.php)
> 
> Tempi: a series of flying changes with four or less strides between.
> 
> To note: a turn on the hindquarters is the same as a turn on the haunches. Turn on the forehand is the opposite of a turn on the hindquarters.
> 
> Airs Above the Ground in Cadre, the Spanische Hofreitschule and South African Lipizzaners .  
> H ttps: //w ww .youtub e.c om /watch?v=8nPH5_Rys3o (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8nPH5_Rys3o)  
> ht tps: //ww w.youtub e.c om/wa tch?v=84I i_Xdk6jI (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=84Ii_Xdk6jI)  
> h ttps ://w ww.yo utube. com/wa tch?v=EGITfF4wzTM (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=EGITfF4wzTM)  
> ht tps: // w ww. Youtube .co m/wat ch?v=BKyKVYGu qlg (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BKyKVYGuqlg)  
> htt ps://w ww.yo utu be.c om/ watch? v=9g U4lXhH 7rI (https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9gU4lXhH7rI)
> 
> Watch for laughs: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=GYjB2L6G9fE (ht tps://w ww.y outube.co m/watch?v=GYjB2L 6G9fE)
> 
> Horses naturally move skew.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1687.
> 
> The chapters just keep getting shorter and my horse bit me. Update times will fluctuate and take a longish time. I'll try to - 'Do or do not, there is no try', yes, Master Yoda. Okay, I will make these chapters over 2k.
> 
> Anyone else play Horse World Online? Red Dead Redemption? Watch Tokyo Ghoul?

Two days, two days without water.

It was terrible. I was severely dehydrated. My saliva was so thick that it was hard to swallow. But, as luck would have it, I found water before I keeled over.

As I was drinking, I sighed so many, many times out of contentment. Any place was lovely when one suddenly got something that they were so dreadfully deprived of.

Over the past year, I had become more in tuned with my new body. I embraced my instincts. So when I saw a wolf-shaped shadow in the brush, 'Oh hell, oh hell, oh hell, run, run, run, run, run – oh it's going to eat me, hell, hell.' I thought at supersonic-speed, then attempted to gallop off just as fast.

'Hell, hell, hell, hell, hell, hell, hell, hell, hell,' were my constant thoughts. Whilst I did not believe in a god or multiple gods – in my own universe, at least. I did not mind the idea of one (or many) as long as it (or they) were in another universe - did not stop me from saying 'hell', as it was pretty much the only 'cuss' word my mother would let me say.

Looking back on the memory, I could not tell what it was – an actual wolf, fox or simply some leaves or – Valar forbid – an Ent.

Later on, when I had time (a hell of a lot of time) to contemplate it, I swore to myself that, if I were to discover that it was an Ent, I would commit suicide out of embarrassment.

I was serious. I would.

When a horse is scared – no, scared was not the right word, the only word I could think of was 'doodbang' which directly translated to 'dead scared' in English from Afrikaans – they are barely aware of their surroundings or were their feet go just that they, 'Must get away, where is it, where is it? Get rid of it! Now!' Which explained the gunshot an excruciating pain in my leg.

I tumbled. Head over hooves, I splattered on the floor. My neck twisted with a sickening snap as it broke, my head luckily not tucked into my body, but I fell into the river.

To clear things up, that sound was not actually a gunshot, it was my back-hoof slicing the tendon in my front leg.

I must admit, that was not the worst part. I had fallen into the river, had a broken neck – the break low enough that I could breathe properly – and could not get out, with the excruciating pain of snapped tendons.

I was drowning. There was no way to survive this and drowning of all things… terrible. The river had a medium-ish current, it was not sluggish but it was not like it was composed of rapids.

It felt like an eternity, maybe it was not. It could not have been. Oh, it felt like forever, I could not do anything. At times, I could just see hazily through the murky water.

Soon, without oxygen, I blacked out, but I was still aware. I knew there were days passing and I could not move, not even twitch my ears.

No, no… It was an eternity. I saw my life.

LB

**Go read the top note, there is an important message.**

LB

I was born on the third of June, two-thousand and one, in a private hospital. I was told that I was born at precisely one-o-two PM. My mother's labour lasted around seven hours, two hours shorter than the average which was probably because I was a premature baby, affectionately called a 'preemi'.

I was very early, born at seven months. This caused me to have Retinopathy of prematurity (ROP), Patent ductus arteriosus (PDA) and Respiratory distress syndrome (RDS). The ROP caused me to have abnormal growth of blood vessels in my eyes and healed by itself, leaving me with slightly reduced vision. PDA meant that I had had heart problems that could have led to heart failure, I needed surgery to fix it. RDS would make me have trouble breathing as it would cause my air sacs in my lungs to collapse, although that was treated and I faced very few problems after my first year.

I first rode a pony at the age of one and a half. My mum strode beside the pony, leading him, I sat grinning in the saddle, unbelievably joyful with balance on the same side of the belief scale as my joy.

The pony was my Norman. He was a narrow little thing, flaxen chestnut with stockings on his front legs. He was my eleven-point-two-hand-high sweetie.

Norman was a Basque pony cross. Basque ponies usually were rather pretty – for ponies, anyway – with mild, easy temperaments, large heads, short ears and necks, strong legs, long backs and hooves that are hard and small. Make no mistake, small hooves did not hinder these little things, they were hardy, strong.

Now, I, of course, did fall off under his care whenever I went faster than a walk. After all; smaller did not mean safer, it simply meant that you did not fall as far. There was a saying that I lived by: 'you tell a gelding, you ask a stallion, you negotiate with a mare and, if it is a pony, you pray to every god you had ever heard of and then some.'

There was never a truer statement uttered. Trust me.

Barring my, ahem, 'stylish dismounts', Norman was an angel. He had no stable vices, he did not nap, he was easy to tack and mount. He would, occasionally, refuse or duck out of a jump, but not often and, when he did, it was always my fault.

Sometimes, it would be because I looked down, leaned to one side or misjudged the distance. In any of those cases, he could not be faulted. Surprised was I, that he never lost confidence and trust in me.

My years with him were great. We had many firsts, seconds and thirds in our competitions, all of which were English disciplines - show jumping, dressage, cross country, eventing, endurance, polocrosse, hunter and hunter seat equitation. I had even been allowed to do fox hunting a few times.

I was six when Norman was used in the riding school and I had a new pony.

My new pony was taller, a fourteen hand, blue roan Connemara mare.

Her name was Hel and, boy, did it suit her.

She was an angel when I tried her out, and we really suited each other, but, in the first week alone, I fell off eight times. Eight.

That is, quite simply, not meant to happen.

But still, I persevered with her and she got better.

As with Norman, I competed in the same shows, won some ribbons, although I was competing in higher level classes.

Four years after I got her, I entered in an eventing competition.

Which competition it was and what level was irrelevant – I hardly remembered, anyway.

It went well, we were coming first in the dressage and show-jumping. I saw myself and Hel approach the seventh obstacle, a gate. At take-off, she did not give herself enough left. Her foreleg caught in the gate. Over she tumbled, the gate broke, I was thrown free and she broke her leg.

The paramedics ran to me whilst the vet went to Hel. I was fine.

Hel was shot.

Quite simply, horses with broken legs do not heal. They would require to be in a sling for months and would get sling-sores. They would be bored and locked in a stable. It was kinder to kill them.

I was… okay, to be honest. It did not affect me much. Mum cried more than I did.

It took a few weeks and several horses that did not suit me, then my riding instructor told me of an OTTB, Yellowwood's Sacrifice.

My delightful years spent with him. My gorgeous boy. The one who killed me.

I forgave him for that. ''Twas not his fault' was my thought on that. ''Twas not him that left me stuck here, why, if 'twas any of the horse's fault it was Cassowary! They only followed her.'

I hated that horse all the more.

Cassowary was never pleasant. She bit, kicked, pushed, blew one's eardrums out with her neighs, overall, not sweet. I would be glad to see her in a trailer with a new owner. She was a cow.

Following stereotypes, her personality made perfect sense. Chestnut mares, for centuries, were often thought of as being itchy with a 'b'. It made sense that she would cause my death! It was all her fault!

And… I would never get the PhDs that I wanted, or the other degrees! I would never finish school. That was… that was... Quite terrible. I was one of the smartest in the class (although I was prone to not studying).

I would not complete my education. My education, why me, why me?

I was the teachers' pet, most certainly. They loved me, I always paid attention in class, usually contributed – they loved my personality and puns. 'It was definitely the puns,' I had long ago decided. 'that made me their favourite. Couldn't be anything else.'

Some of my favourites were: 'That was sodium funny! I slapped my neon that one!', 'Oxygen had two friends, both called Dro. One day, Oxygen invited both over for some drinks. When they arrived, Oxygen said, 'Hi Dro, gin?', 'What fish can easily tell when their instrument is the correct pitch? A chromatic tuna!', 'What horse comes out after dark? A nightmare!', 'Musicians Theory of Relativity: E=Fb' and lastly: 'What fish has the lowest voice type? A bass!'

Admittedly, most of the puns that I used were not my own – the were made by sweet people who posted their cleverness on the internet. I loved puns – all puns. I spent hours browsing the internet for them.

But I was…

(I coughed, opened my eyes and scrambled up. It was so bright and there was a freaking humanoid right in front of me.)

Alive?


	6. Chapter six

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's good news and there's 'you-are-going-to-slaughter-me' news, which one do you want first? Good news? That's great!
> 
> Okay, good news is that I am writing another fanfiction where the main characters travel to different fandoms. It has Tokyo Ghoul, Full-Metal Alchemist, X-Men, Young Justice, Doctor Who, might have Suicide Squad eventually and possibly other things. It's going to be called Hannibal and the Alchemist. It's a SI of my friend and myself. The even better news is that I am going to finish typing it out before I post it! It will be posted on Wattpad, AO3 and Fanfiction.net. Is anyone willing to beta for that crossover?
> 
> Now for the bad news: I have grown bored of this story. I cannot finish it. Anyone is welcome to take the idea and run with it. Anyone.
> 
> As always, thanks to my beta.

Pointy. His ears were pointy.

He was tall.

With pointy ears.

‘What. The. Hell.’

It was an elf. A flipping elf from The Lord of the Rings. ‘Note to self: wish for fanfiction stories to happen to you,’ (as I often did), ‘and happen they will.’

For several moments – I did not know how long I stared at him as I got up. Moving closer, I inspected him.

‘Why is his face so serious (or Sirius! That’s it! That’s his new name! Some people do pronounce ‘serious’ like ‘Sirius’ don’t they? Although I don’t? Eh, what the heck.)’ I was in a hyper mood (one could not blame me; I had had a long nap and was pulled from freezing water to air that made me feel like an icicle.) Which meant…

Sluurrppp.

Sirius made a noise of protest (although it could have been disgust) and drew back, wiping saliva from his face whilst I snorted, bobbed my head and pranced a bit.

Annoyed still, the elf attempted to place a halter on my head and there was no alternative universe where I would make it easy. I lifted my head high enough to be mistaken for a giraffe, pranced out of his reach and generally acted like a pain.

With a twitching face, Sirius let out a sigh (which I translated as ‘fine, you know what? I don’t care anymore’) and just walked away! He. Walked. Away. From me. Just turned his back. Oooh no.

With an angry snort, I furiously trotted to him and bowled him over with my head. I stamped my hoof twice, ears pinned.

He scowled, got up, and fumbled with getting the halter on as I arched my neck with flared nostrils.

I was given a sour look as he marched away. Really, what was his problem? Why did he blame me, really –

Ow! Ow!

My face was tugged on as I had not been moving, the rope halter was hardly comfortable on my face! I balked even more.

Eventually, I let up and went with him.

This is what helped cause everything that happened in the books.

LB

I had had several foals – some were greys, others true whites, a few black and were some smoky black. The ones of most significance were greys and true whites. They became the Meras.

I lived through it all – everything. The rise and fall of the Ring. Bilbo Baggins and the dwarves coming to Rivendell. Gandalf, Aragorn, Frodo – all of it.

I am old and I am not dying. I do not know if I ever will as to die would be bliss. I was bored, lonely, depressed and maybe even a little bit mad… how could I cope?

LB

The Being had forgotten about Its entertainment. It had been a while. The Being did not know how long, nor did It care, It was just bored. Again.

A cry of mental distress reminded It of a thing of great importance. The entertainment.

The Being glanced at Its entertainment, which was now such a drag. With a simple wave, the Being destroyed the horse’s body and took her mind and stored the memories in that of a Gallifreyan that had not even been born yet. The memories were locked and may or may not ever come out. With a smirk, the Being put a thought into the mind of that Time-Tot which completely changed everything.

LB

Many, many years later, millions, billions or even trillions or aeons passed, when that Being felt Its head split, memories poured through of every life It had ever lived. As It slowly crumbled to dust, another took Its place.


End file.
